Project H(overcraft)
by Evie Warner
Summary: Some of the most terrifying words in existence: "It seemed like a good idea at the time."


**Author's Note:** Just take these brotherly feels. I have too many!

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 **Project H**

-0-

Some of the most terrifying words in existence: " _It seemed like a good idea at the time_."

They're in disgrace.

Stitches lace up the delicate skin of Hiro's arm, and Tadashi is **this certain** he had a heart attack at thirteen. It was stupid, it was reckless, ill-thought out, yet so much _fun_.

At the time.

In their frail defense, Tadashi's intentions were harmless. Summer vacation was _supposed_ to be full of heedless entertainment, through one outlet or another, and Hiro had been depressingly downbeat since the news of his potential genius spread like a wildfire. He'd just wanted to see his otōto smile again, whatever the cost.

Hence 'Project H'. Or 'Project Hiro' to put it fully.

"No," the miniature devil had murmured, lips curling into what was _not_ a smile. "Project Hovercraft."

A plan that detailed exactly what it said on the tin.

Hours had been spent under the sun, salvaging bits of scrap—mostly rust-coated junk—and literal days were dedicated to living in and out of the garage-turned-workshop, where Hiro fondly bestowed names to Aunt Cass' array of neglected power tools and the two brothers snoozed peacefully on the lumpy red couch their aunt had lugged into the far corner after finding them fast asleep whilst hunched over crude blueprints for the fifth time in a row.

To his wavering credit, it had worked. Project Hovercraft was a doomed misfire (they were six and thirteen; genius or not, it plain wasn't possible) the construction had lit Hiro up with an unrestrained joy that made Tadashi's heart sing and his lips incapable of saying, "No."

He'd looked over their completed masterpiece, tracing a finger over the deteriorating metal with a fond smile. A flick of the bright red ON switch had the device emit a low-pitched wail that reminded Tadashi of the humming of Aunt Cass' pickup truck.

For all the blood, sweat, and tears put into crafting that machine, satisfaction erased the doubts that stewed in Tadashi's mind for weeks.

But then Hiro insisted on a test run.

"Come on, come on, 'Dashi!" he squealed, perched within the shopping-cart-turned-front-seat with an oversized bike helmet on his head. "You can steer, but I wanna sit up front, 'kay?"

Despite every last instinct he possessed screaming at him to _grab Hiro and run_ , Tadashi swallowed down the lump congealing in his throat and reluctantly clambered in behind his little brother, padding him up with an old life jacket whilst mentally reciting his prayers.

It was stupid, really. Deep down, Tadashi knew he had nothing to fear; this gut feeling was nothing more than a side effect of his unshakable mother-hen mode. Yet horror upon all horrors, the rusty, buggy invention had been _functional_.

That is, for all of five minutes.

But later, Hiro would gleefully announce that joy-ride through the busy, thus dangerous streets of San Fransokyo had been smooth as butter up until the untimely crash landing in the city pond.

An athlete Tadashi was not, but those Junior swimming classes were good for something. Both arms around his wayward brother, Tadashi had fiercely kicked until they were back on reliable, solid ground.

Giddy on adrenaline, despite (or because of) the near-drowning experience, Hiro had jolted to his feet with a goofy grin, loudly declaring to shocked onlookers that the test-run had been _awesome_.

Tadashi, flopped on his back and panting like fish out of water, had clawed himself upright to say—

—well, that was the question of the day. Before words could reach his lips, Tadashi had seen the blood. And somewhere along the line, he'd waver a bet he'd passed out. When time made sense again, it was within the walls of a hospital.

"You've been in the wars, young man," the doctor—Dr. Suzuki, her name tag reads—says lightly, with a warm smile. "Try to leave the driving off until you get your license, alright?"

Bit of an overstatement. A few cuts, bit of bruising, and damp clothes. Hardly survivor material. On the other hand, the last he saw of Hiro involved shocked eyes, a copious drizzling of blood, and a water-logged lungs.

Hence the anxiety.

As Dr. Suzuki turns her back, Tadashi's eyes magnetize towards the open door. To sneak away, or sit tight like an obedient patient? Risk aggravating irritated adults, or stew in nerves for who knows how long it'll take to reunite with Hiro?

Like there'd ever been a contest.

Stealth-like, Tadashi slips out of the room and weaves his way down the foreign hallway, retracing earlier steps as he nudges open a door that reveals his patched-up little brother.

Simultaneously, both boys perk up at the sight of each other. Battered, but _safe_ , and Tadashi feels his heart flutter in relief.

But then a stone is dumped into his belly, quenching the mood as an accusing finger is thrust in Tadashi's face.

"And _you!_ "

... on second thought, maybe he shouldn't have snuck away.

Aunt Cass, looking to be a handful of hair short, is a force to be reckoned with. "Tadashi, why?" she snaps. " _Why?_ Oh god, oh god!"

She loses her ability to make coherent noise following that, rambling off into a string of nonsense that sounds vaguely akin to self-awareness of this fact. Behind her, Hiro takes a profound interest in his knees.

His otōto looks the personification of misery, and Tadashi's words slip out on instinct: "S-sorry, Hiro."

To which Aunt Cass promptly regains her point. "You're darn _right_ you're sorry! I've got grey hair coming in because of you two!"

Arm securely wrapped up in thick bandages, Hiro glowers at the concealed wound with irritation. "S'not that bad," he murmurs. "Doesn't even hurt."

"It doesn't matter if it hurts, you drove that abomination across town and nearly drowned yourselves! Oh help me, what have I signed up for? I'll take one—just _one_ troublemaker, please, I can't handle both of you."

It's a guilt trip. Karma is taking a well-deserved bite out of him, and man, does he feel like a puppy who's been kicked and banished to the dog house. Aunt Cass rants the whole drive home, random outbursts involving how she's done the best to raise them, she's far from perfect and really should have checked out that book on parenting, but she had a point with this—

(" _I'm so, SO sorry, Aunt Cass_."

" _Love you_ ... "

" _Well,_ ** _I love you, too!_** ")

—which doesn't really matter anymore, because she's snarfing down home-baked goodies, and her thighs will loathe her by the end of the week.

So the boys are banished to the living room for the remainder of the day.

("Not your room! There are toys in your room; no, you'll stay right here, where I can see you.")

So they sit in utter silence, Tadashi on one end of the couch and Hiro across the room, nestled in a plush armchair that nearly swallows him whole.

Ten minutes into their time-out, Hiro starts fidgeting. Sat cross-legged, then lying on his front, draped over the arm, before rolling onto his back, head over the edge of the cushion as he stares at Tadashi upside-down. But one glance from Aunt Cass as she bustles about the kitchen quenches anything he might say.

Twenty minutes later, boredom melds into drowsiness. Curled up around a velvet throw pillow, Hiro's heavy eyelids are drooping and irregular kitten snores puncture the silence.

Tadashi's heart melts at the sight. For one blissful moment, he's tempted to cross the border and snuggle up next to his brother, to memorize the final details of a peacefully sleeping Hiro, but reality makes a return with a silent scream of "DISGRACE!"

Half-asleep in the armchair, Hiro blinks groggily, his nose crinkling in distain. A smile on Tadashi's end prompts a disgruntled growl that sounds remarkably like Mochi, during the first and last time he'd been dressed up for Halloween.

It's oddly fascinating, observing his bleary little brother projecting the lowest personality points of one overly plump cat.

Then Aunt Cass slams a plate down on the table. Tadashi jolts as though dealt an electric shock and Hiro flat-out back rolls off the chair.

Silence prevails through dinner. If not for the chinks of metal against china, Tadashi would've feared he'd done deaf.

Hiro obediently nibbles his rice, one tiny forkful at a time. His eyes catch Tadashi's periodically throughout the tense meal, and the smiles he directs whenever their aunt isn't watching elevates the dark cloud looming over him, bit by bit.

"You've been building a hovercraft," Aunt Cass finally speaks. It's without prior warning, abrupt that it makes Tadashi jolt in his seat, a lump wedging in his throat. "Is that why you didn't want me to throw out the busted dishwasher?"

How else could they have built the engine?

"Or those scraps," he sheepishly admits. He owes her complete honesty.

A clack of her fork against a plate as she skewers a piece of broccoli. "A hovercraft," she muses, twirling the utensil in hand. "I can't even—a _hovercraft_. You're thirteen, Tadashi. He's _six_ , and you built a hovercraft in a week."

An apology waits on his lips. He knows the words, he _means_ them, and genuinely feels rotten for hurting Hiro and terrifying their aunt.

But then something unexpected happens: Aunt Cass snorts. She claps a hand to her mouth to cage in the mortification betraying her, but if anything, it fuels the shuddering laughs bubbling within her until she bursts into peals of unabashed laughter.

It takes all Tadashi has not to scoot away and pray for the stability of his aunt's last, lingering shred of sanity.

Slowly, as if sudden movement tear clean through the fraying thread, Tadashi looks for Hiro. His otōto's perplexed expression mirrors his own.

"A hovercraft," she chortles, flicking away an unauthorized tear. "Thirteen and six—oh, Tomeo would be so proud. Your mother, on the other hand, she'd have wrung your necks. Then mine, and probably Mochi's, too."

More borderline hysterical laughter.

Tadashi meets his brother's eyes in the same moment Hiro looks for his, infused with confusion and a dash of hope.

"So," Hiro twirls his fork idly, refusing to look, "you're not mad?"

A hand slams onto the tabletop. " _Yes_ , I'm mad! I've never been so—oh, Tadashi," she turns to him, looking physically pained, "you were supposed to help me through this! I guess that solidifies it; men aren't to be trusted."

It might be forgiveness, or the final tip into madness. Either way, Aunt Cass is a force to be reckoned with, and Tadashi has never been one to push his luck.

Hiro, on the other hand, muffles his giggles into a cup of juice.

-0-

There's no question to it when Tadashi returns from brushing his teeth to find Hiro sat cross-legged on the wrong bed, watching his brother expectantly. Together, they silently snuggle under the duvet, Tadashi's arms curled comfortably around the warm bundle nuzzling against his chest.

Usually, he'd be comfortable enough to fall straight to sleep. But this time, the lingering scent of antiseptic clings to Hiro's bandages. It's bitter caffeine to Tadashi's senses.

"Be honest, Hiro," he whispers into a nest of inky hair. "Does it hurt?"

Of any option of answers, from an indignant "no" to a meek "kinda," the one that Tadashi doesn't anticipate is a bandaged arm promptly materializing before him. He blinks, trailing his eyes down the length of the cloth, arching over Hiro's shoulder until he locates chocolate-brown eyes gazing up into his own.

"Is that a yes?" he asks slowly.

"Kiss it," a quiet voice pipes.

For a moment, Tadashi can only blink again. "Beg your pardon—?"

"Kiss it better, 'Dashi."

Oh. _Oh_. The age-old philosophy. Duh.

Tadashi gingerly presses his lips to the patched-up wound, exaggerating the smack as he pulls away.

Through the darkness, Hiro smiles. "No, doesn't hurt. Not anymore."

-0-

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 **Author's Note:** :P


End file.
